


Putting the Endearment in Dear

by JoyAndOtherStories



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Headcanon, Historical but not detailed, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Pining, Then post-notpocalypse, my dear, pining with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-01-20 20:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21287471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyAndOtherStories/pseuds/JoyAndOtherStories
Summary: I headcanoned that Aziraphale calls everyone "my dear" so that he can say it to Crowley every now and then without causing suspicion...so then I had to write a fic about it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 177
Kudos: 558
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, kashiichan's favourites





	1. Oh Dear

**Author's Note:**

> This will be short (for me), I think just 3 chapters.  
Update: Ok, 4 chapters.  
Update again: FIVE lovely chapters! (Count von Count laugh)

When the humans first began creating little terms of endearment for each other, Aziraphale was briefly confused, then almost immediately charmed.

It was so very human of them—taking what they’d been given and making _more _of it, expanding beyond the boundaries they’d started with, creating ideas and words far more imaginative than anything Heaven had thought of. He was concerned for just a bit that the new trend might be sinful—after all, the humans already had their given names (Adam and Eve and Noah and such), and names for relationships (child and parent and sibling and such)—perhaps they were over-reaching beyond what the Almighty had intended? But he felt so much love emanating from them whenever they used the new terms that he quickly concluded that they _couldn’t _be sins.

In fact, soon his only concern was that…well, that _he _didn’t have anyone to call sweetheart or darling or beloved. Or anyone to call _him _that, for that matter. Of course, the humans he interacted with sometimes gave him affectionate nicknames—he spent most of a decade being called “Sunshine” by a village in Mesopotamia, some time after the Flood—but he never felt comfortable applying them to the humans himself. It didn’t seem quite right—even though he was a being of love, he was expected to love everyone and everything equally, and referring to any _one _human in such an intimate way would have felt like…playing favorites. So he didn’t. He satisfied himself by watching them do it, and smiling at the flashes of love he felt from them when they did.

But he had to admit it felt a bit lonely.

He had no difficulty taking up other human activities—he was particularly excited about their tendency to record their thoughts in written form; he’d started making a little collection of some of what they produced. And then of course there was eating.

“It’s simply lovely,” he tried to explain to Crawly. They’d met by chance in Babylon, strolled along a street together—which was only natural, of course—surely Aziraphale needed to determine what Crawly’s plans were, so that he could thwart them—and now they’d stopped together under a palm tree, watching the stream of humanity passing by. Aziraphale was snacking on dried dates; Crawly was drinking from a cup of something that smelled strong.

“Is this some sort of new…Heavenly program, trying out human food?” Crawly asked, with that mocking note that was always there when he spoke of Heaven. “Appreciating all the Almighty’s gifts or something?”

“Ah…no, not that I know of,” Aziraphale admitted. “It seems to be strictly a human thing.” He’d mentioned it in a few reports; nobody Up There seemed terribly interested. “In any case, they—the humans, that is—they’ve come up with _so _many wonderful ideas with cooking. So much variety,” he enthused. “You really should try it, my dear.”

Crawly went rigid, turned his head slowly to look at him. “Your what?”

Oh.

Oh my.

“Ah…well…I said, my d…” He swallowed and couldn’t bring himself to repeat it. “It’s…it’s another thing the humans are doing,” he managed, waving the hand that wasn’t holding the dates. “I’ve…picked it up from them, I suppose. Calling each other little names. It’s a sign of…of affection, of friendship. For them, of course. I suppose it’s become a habit for me by now.” Surely that sounded realistic enough. “Haven’t you noticed them doing it? Well, perhaps not, being a demon and all,” he added, finally able to look at his companion again. No, not companion—adversary.

Crawly’s mouth twitched as he gazed at Aziraphale for an instant, then he rolled his eyes. “Of course I’ve noticed, angel. I just didn’t realize you were picking up so many human habits.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Aziraphale said defensively. “I _am _supposed to be blending in, after all. Besides, _you _certainly have.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the wine and whatever stylish thing Crawly was wearing. Crawly grunted and drank deeply.


	2. Frankly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It made sense, Aziraphale told himself firmly (read: nervously) as he mulled this exchange over in the next several days, that he’d use a term of…
> 
> Not intimacy. That was too…intimate.
> 
> And not endearment; obviously he wasn’t endeared to a demon.

It made sense, Aziraphale told himself firmly (read: nervously) as he mulled this exchange over in the next several days, that he’d use a term of…

Not intimacy. That was too…intimate.

And not endearment; obviously he wasn’t endeared to a demon.

Well, a term of…familiarity—that was better—yes, it made a certain sense that he’d use a term of _familiarity _toward Crawly. He’d seen the humans doing it for so long, and he’d wished he had someone permanent or important enough in his own life so that he could do the same—and Crawly certainly seemed rather permanent (undeniably less temporary than the humans, anyway), and he _was _important—purely in that he was Aziraphale’s opposition here on Earth, of course. In fact, his relationship with Crawly—no, that didn’t sound right; clearly they didn’t have a _relationship_—his enmity with Crawly? To be fair, that didn’t sound quite right either...well, whatever it wanted to be called, he’d known Crawly longer than he’d known anyone else, except other angels—and (he suddenly realized, with a bit of a shock) he saw him more frequently than anyone else, _including _other angels. So if he _were _going to use a term of…of fondness—no—of liking—not that either—of, of, well—well, it made sense that he’d use it toward Crawly.

In any case, obviously he couldn’t apply the term only to Crawly. If he were going to use a…a term of…well, friendship, or affection, or whatever—well. He certainly couldn’t use it only toward a demon, no matter how long-standing their…association was. Obviously he ought to look at the humans with more…warmth, or regard, or care, or whatever…than he felt for a demon. He was here on Earth _for _the humans, after all. His concern about playing favorites amongst them seemed silly now. And besides, he wasn’t playing favorites if he applied it to _all _of them, was he?

And they _were _dear, even if they were temporary, dear humans doing astonishing things within their short-to-him lives, writing down their clever thoughts and stories that he enjoyed collecting, crafting their clever inventions (that Crawly always appreciated), or, if they didn’t have skills in those areas, loving and being loved and doing what they could with whatever they did have.

Soon enough, he was “my dear-ing” all the time—the children in the street who gave him directions, the scholars or artists or royalty he was called upon to bless, the cooks who found ever-new ways to combine food staples into new delights, the barbers who gave him shaves and trims (another human custom unnecessary to Aziraphale but nonetheless lovely). By the time he ran into Crawly again, some decades later in a riverside village, it was entirely natural for Aziraphale to give a smiling “thank you, my dear” to the young person who brought him two mugs of the local beverage.

“Here you are, my dear,” he said to Crawly, handing him one of the mugs, matching his tone and intonation to that he’d just used with the young human. Crawly didn’t comment this time, just took a sip of his drink.

“So, what are you in town for?” the demon asked blandly, watching Aziraphale over the rim of his mug in that intense way he had.

It turned out that they were both supposed to be targeting the same human, the son of the town leader. Both Heaven and Hell were sure that the young man would be strategically important to the overall direction of the region. Crawly expressed eye-rolling doubts about this to Aziraphale (“What’s he going to do? Add extra paperwork for riverboat captains?”), who did his best to avoid openly agreeing.

“Look, angel,” Crawly groused after a few weeks of diligent blessing on Aziraphale’s part and somewhat unambitious tempting on Crawly’s, “can’t we write up our reports and be finished? You can say you’ve introduced him to—errgh, literature, whatever it is, and he’s been inspired to start writing poetry”—

“It’s all about his lover,” said Aziraphale glumly, who didn’t have anything against the lover—he seemed a nice young man—except that he distracted their target from…well, everything.

—“no reason to include that,” Crawly continued, “and, you can say you drove away a demon who showed up to try to tempt him into…what is it—debauchery.”

“But I haven’t,” pointed out Aziraphale.

“You will have done, if I leave town the same time you do.”

“But—well—I don’t…”

“And I can report to _my _people that I introduced him to musicians who will lead him into a life of debauchery”—

“He’s only interested in them so he can sing songs to his lover,” Aziraphale put in.

—“again, no need to report that, _and_, I can say I drove away an angel who showed up to…tempt him into goodness, or whatever it is you celestial types call it.”

“Bless him with the influence of Heaven,” Aziraphale supplied, folding his hands properly and ignoring Crawly’s derisive snort.

After another week, Aziraphale had to concede Crawly’s point, though he kept up a determined show of reluctance. Their target continued to show indifference to Heavenly influences, Hellish temptations, or anything other than finding ways to meet his lover. Aziraphale had tried all of the food the not-overly-large village had to offer, and Crawly had grown bored with the local music scene—which, Aziraphale suspected, didn’t especially deserve the name. Aziraphale wasn’t an expert in newer music like Crawly was, but even he could discern that the musicians of this particular town might not represent the pinnacle of talent.

He’d only let himself call Crawly “my dear” the once, handing him wine at the beginning of this…encounter, despite addressing nearly everyone else that way—their target human, his younger sister (who was considerably more talented at administrative duties), their father the town leader, their mother the actual town leader, their abundance of nieces and nephews, the family’s servants, the family’s cook, the allegedly debauched musicians Crawly dragged him around to meet, the children and spouses of the musicians (who had suspiciously stable home lives for people as debauched as Crawly was apparently claiming in his reports to Hell). Aziraphale felt he’d displayed excellent self-control and…maintained appropriate boundaries. Yes, that was the ticket. Showing affection to the humans was fine, but if he must have…interaction…with a demon, clearly he had to keep things professional. No excessive use of…terms of…whatever it was. He congratulated himself on his restraint as they drove each other out of town. (An outside observer might have described this process as chatting idly while they strolled along an outbound street, but an outside observer wasn’t responsible for sending reports to Heaven or Hell.)

“So long, angel,” said Crawly as they passed outside of the town’s limits.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, somehow startled to realize they’d each be going their separate ways now. “Yes, of course. So long, my dear.”

Oh.

Oh…fiddlesticks.

He turned away from Crawly and didn’t look back, because even if he did accidentally use a term of…acquaintance…toward him, it wasn’t important, at all. It didn’t mean anything whatsoever. It was simply the way he addressed people, and that was that.

The road ahead, despite being full of humans, seemed oddly empty.


	3. Elementary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “With th’ humans,” Crowley elaborated, waving a hand in the very general direction of Petronius’s departing backside. “Y’r all…’there you are, my dear,’ or…’thank you kindly, m’dear’”—he’d put on a high-pitched tone that was probably meant to be insulting, but sounded like he was trying to imitate an irritated cat.
> 
> Aziraphale frowned at him. He supposed he had just told Petronius something like “thank you kindly,” and patted the fellow’s hand, but—
> 
> “I don’t see the problem with that, my dear,” he said.
> 
> Oh.
> 
> Was he supposed to be avoiding that?  
Surely it was fine. He’d just said it to Petronius, hadn’t he? Harder to remember after a few drinks.

It was fine, Aziraphale told himself (firmly, very firmly), that he occasionally called Crawly “my dear.” After all, he called everyone my dear, now. It didn’t mean anything other than a…greeting. An…indication of…general good will. And as a being of love, he could certainly be expected to include even a demon in that sort of term. Of course, he would have to adhere to his previously-instituted rule of not playing favorites. As long as he applied the term to humans more than he applied it to Crawly, it would be clear that it was simply a term of address that he used universally.

Though not toward other angels, he realized with a cold shock one day.

But that made sense, of course, he concluded quickly. Naturally he held his fellow angels in quite high esteem and affection, but they didn’t spend time with the humans and wouldn’t have been familiar at all with the custom of using terms of endearment. It would only have confused them if he’d tried to call Gabriel or Michael or Sandalphon or Uriel “my dear.” They might even have considered it disrespectful, and he certainly never wished to be disrespectful.

Crawly, on the other hand, spent plenty of time with the humans, and would recognize that Aziraphale was simply addressing him in the same manner as he addressed everyone else.

“Like y’r ever-one’s uncle,” slurred Crawly—or Crowley, now—brandishing a pewter goblet at him over a mostly-finished platter of oysters. (Mostly finished by Aziraphale; Crowley had tried a couple and then shoved the dish toward him.)

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale asked. He wasn’t entirely sober, but he wasn’t nearly as drunk as Crowley, and he couldn’t follow how this connected to whatever they’d been discussing (Caligula and his court, hadn’t it been? Crowley had seemed...per—pertur—bothered) before Petronius had come by, yet again, to refill their goblets. Well, Crowley’s goblet; the demon was drinking at a somewhat alarming pace.

“With th’ humans,” Crowley elaborated, waving a hand in the very general direction of Petronius’s departing backside. “Y’r all…’there you are, my dear,’ or…’thank you kindly, m’dear’”—he’d put on a high-pitched tone that was probably meant to be insulting, but sounded like he was trying to imitate an irritated cat.

Aziraphale frowned at him. He supposed he _had _just told Petronius something like “thank you kindly,” and patted the fellow’s hand, but—

“I don’t see the problem with that, my dear,” he said.

Oh.

Was he supposed to be avoiding that?

Surely it was fine. He’d just said it to Petronius, hadn’t he? Harder to remember after a few drinks.

“’Cause it’s…it’s decep…hypo…not the real thing,” Crowley was explaining, drunkenly earnest. “Y’look…nice…sweet…innnnoc…ehhh…not ever doing the wrong thing. But really you—y’r not nice, not under…underground…ehh…deep…nnggghh…underneath.” He nodded as if he’d made a profound point.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” said Aziraphale, firmly, or perhaps only a bit sloshily. “Ah, thank you, my dear,” he added to the young person who timidly came to take the cleared oyster platter, and he slipped them a coin that made their eyes widen (as talented as Petronius was with oysters, Aziraphale had noted a certain disregard in his treatment of his workers).

“See—see—that’s m’point.” Crowley waved his goblet vaguely toward the young person; the liquid in it slopped dangerously. “Like y’r errrrbody’s nice uncle. But really you’re a…a…a bit of a…not nice…uncle.” He gestured uncoordinatedly. “Not an uncle. Something else.” He downed the rest of his drink, glared at the empty goblet. “Not my uncle,” he mumbled.

“Well, certainly not,” said Aziraphale, relieved to find clarity on at least one issue. “Ah…do you think you should…sober up a bit, my dear?”

Oh…crumbs. He’d said it again.

“Don’t wanna,” said Crowley sulkily.

Aziraphale sighed and surreptitiously redirected some of the drink he himself had consumed into a nearby goblet. Petronius had begun glancing meaningfully between them and the exit, and Aziraphale thought at least one of them might need to be clear-headed enough to navigate.

“Come along, then, my d—er…come along.” He hoisted a grumbling Crowley upward, draped a gangly arm around his shoulders to keep him somewhat upright, grimaced and braced his own feet. He was fairly sure he outweighed Crowley, but the demon was no lightweight, and he seemed incapable of supporting his own weight at the moment. They shuffled awkwardly toward the door, Aziraphale managing a clumsy wave in Petronius’s direction as they left.

“Now, where are we taking—”

Ah.

He had no idea where Crowley was staying, and Crowley was not in any state to give him directions at the moment. Crowley was also not in any state to be left alone.

Well, he certainly couldn’t be seen wandering the streets with him. He heaved a sigh, and turned down the street that would take them to his own room.

“It’s not much,” he said to a minimally-responsive Crowley as they staggered eventually to his door. “But it has a bed, and it’s private—which is not exactly easy to come by around here, I can tell you…” He trailed off, becoming aware of just how one-sided this conversation was.

“Bed,” mumbled Crowley, sort of into his shoulder. “’S good. Bed.”

It only took a few moments to bundle Crowley into said bed, Aziraphale scrupulously tucking the blanket around him, and only a few minutes after that for gentle snores to begin emanating from the slumbering demon.

Aziraphale looked at him over the edge of the manuscript he’d chosen to study. His new hairstyle was interesting. Aziraphale found his eyes lingering on the way the newly-short hair was brushed past his temple.

“Sleep well, my dear,” he said, very quietly.

Oh.

Well, it wasn’t as if there was anyone to hear him. And it was natural, he was sure, to feel a surge of extra…familiarity for someone you’d…taken responsibility for. Temporarily, of course. To be sure he didn’t cause trouble.

“What in the bloody Heaven—” was his first indication, sometime mid-morning, that Crowley was awake.

“Ah, there you are! Good morning.”

A few seconds of silence, then—

“Angel? What’re you doing—nope. Wait. Where in the blessed—agghhh!” Crowley had started to sit up and had collapsed back on the bed, clutching his head.

“I’m afraid you’re likely to have a bit of a hangover,” Aziraphale cautioned him, belatedly.

Crowley’s response to this was a string of curses.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way personally, but…yes, I suppose so.” Aziraphale paused, feeling unreasonably awkward. “At any rate, there’s your…ah…eyewear.” He pointed at a small table by the bed, where he’d carefully set Crowley’s dark lenses. “And—apologies, I’m not sure what happened to your laurels.”

Crowley muttered something very profane about where his laurels could go. Aziraphale decided it was best to pretend he hadn’t heard it.

“I—I thought I might get us some…coffee, or something,” he said tentatively.

Crowley squinted at him from the depths of the blanket. “Gimme a minute.”

He closed his eyes and snapped his fingers.

“Aghh,” he muttered, sitting up and shaking his head vigorously. “Alright, that’s a bit better.” He looked around the plain room, with more focus this time. “Angel,” he said slowly, “this is…your room? Where you’re staying?”

“Well, yes, obviously.”

“So this is…your bed?”

“I suppose so, yes, though it’s not as though I use it for sleeping—”

Crowley had jumped out of the bed as if it had suddenly burned him.

“Your bed?!? Aziraphale, you can’t have a demon _in your bed_!”

Aziraphale blinked up at him. “I don’t see a problem with it. As I said, it’s not as though I needed it, and you had to sleep somewhere.”

“Had to sleep somewhere,” Crowley echoed. “What—what would you have said to your lot, if they knew you’d—you’d spent the night with a demon in your bed?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I could hardly leave a drunken demon to terrorize the city of Rome all night, now could I? Who knows what you could have gotten up to. This way I had you safely contained, keeping an eye on you. Thwarting any demonic wiles you might have…er…wiled.” He’d had all night to develop that reasoning, and was rather proud of it.

“Right,” said Crowley, rubbing his face. “Keeping an eye on me. That…that makes sense.” He flopped down in a chair, not looking at the bed, and put his dark lenses back on. “For Satan’s sake, I can’t let _my _lot know I…spent the night in an angel’s bed.”

“I would have thought it would be more of a…feather in your wing,” Aziraphale said, as delicately as possible.

Crowley gaped at him. Then a look crossed his face like the one when Aziraphale had tempted him to eat oysters yesterday. “_Angel_.”

“Well, we are in _Rome_,” Aziraphale said, hoping he wasn’t visibly blushing. “Anyway. Would you like to…go get some breakfast? Or probably lunch, by now? I thought of visiting the baths later, have you tried them yet?”

“The baths,” said Crowley, oddly flat. His face, hidden behind the dark lenses (Aziraphale found he didn’t like that), did something…disconcerting…as he gazed at Aziraphale. Then he swallowed. “No—no, angel—I—I need to get out of Rome. It’s…not agreeing with me.”

And he did. Aziraphale walked with him far enough to show him to a main road (Aziraphale’s room was in a quiet, scholarly sort of corner, at least for Rome).

“So long, angel.”

“Ah. Yes. So long, my dear,” he replied, with no extra meaning, or feeling, or inflection, or…anything of that sort in his voice.

Because it didn’t have any of those, of course. His only feelings toward Crowley, besides an appropriate sense of wariness and distrust befitting an angel’s dealings with a demon, were a certain sense of familiarity and…and possibly an appreciation for their mutual enjoyment of humans and their various creations. Nothing else would ever be detected in his tone if he happened to address the demon with a term like “my dear,” because there _wasn’t _anything else to be detected.

He didn’t stay long in Rome after that, although he dutifully sampled the food and tried the baths (very relaxing, if one didn’t mind the immodesty). But somehow he found that the whole city seemed to have lost its zest.


	4. My Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale set his wine on the table but still found the liquid much easier to look at than Crowley. “They’d been…saying that sort of thing to their—well, their…loved ones…for ages by then. I’d been—I suppose I’d been rather envious, really.” He looked up then, managing a nervous smile. It was a bit forced, but Crowley took the obvious bait:  
“Mm, an angel, envious. How sinful.”  
Considering recent events, Aziraphale probably should have felt complimented by this, but the magnitude of what he was confessing was catching up to him.

It made sense, Aziraphale told himself (a bit tiredly by now, if he’d been willing to admit it), that he felt an extra surge of…familiarity…for Crowley. No matter how proud and affectionate he felt toward humans, he couldn’t deny that their lifespans limited any chances of becoming truly attached to them.

Not that he was _attached _to Crowley.

Of course not.

He had simply known him far longer than he’d known any human. And he had more in common with him than with other ange—no, that couldn’t be right. He simply shared certain interests with Crowley that he didn’t share with his fellow angels. Only because the other angels hadn’t spent nearly as much time down here with the humans. They couldn’t be expected to share his appreciation for wine or food or music or clever human thoughts or—

At any rate, it made sense that Crowley felt more…more _familiar _than most other beings.

But he couldn’t let that show. That wouldn’t be at all proper.

So he rationed himself over the centuries, made sure he applied those funny human terms of familiarity equally, everywhere, to everyone, so that they would simply _be _funny human terms, nothing important or significant in them other than a way to greet friends and acquaintances and strangers and…and adversaries alike.

And then 1941 happened, or more specifically, a book-protecting miracle happened, and he could no longer pretend that Crowley was anything other than dear to him.

But he couldn’t _do _anything about it, he reminded himself, over and over, pacing. It didn’t matter how he felt, because even if Crowley felt something similar, any sort of…display…would only lead to their destruction.

He learned very quickly that he had to be even more careful with terms of—of—oh, bother; it was endearment; it had always been endearment—

At any rate, he had to be even more careful to clamp down on his—his feelings if he used those terms, and sometimes he couldn’t let himself use them at all.

Certainly not in the Bentley in 1967. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his meaning out of his voice if he said it then. He couldn’t even let his fingers brush Crowley’s as he handed over the thermos that might take Crowley from him.

His time as Brother Francis was at first a relief—Brother Francis, of course, called everyone _my dear_, including the forbidding nanny who frightened everyone except Warlock and the funny gardener. And then it felt as if it were…training, in a way—seeing Crowley every day, using terms that could have meant everything as if they meant nothing, hiding and denying the terrifying difference between how he felt for Crowley and how he felt for every other being in creation.

He was so well trained at denying that difference after those years, and the thousands of years before them, that when the world was literally ending, he still denied it, denied it to Crowley himself, shattering both their hearts in a bandstand, clamping down on those traitorous feelings as he watched his…his…as he watched Crowley walk away, as he hid and denied the piece of him that was telling him that even if Heaven won, he’d already lost.

And then—

And then, after the end of everything, after he’d denied Heaven and Heaven had denied him—

He still stood with Crowley, and Crowley still stood with him.

And they went to lunch.

Of course they went to lunch. They laughed together, and toasted the world together, and went back to the bookshop together.

Crowley dropped onto the couch while Aziraphale investigated the wine stash and was pleasantly surprised to find it largely unchanged from before Adam’s restoration. He brought a few bottles to the table, explaining his findings to Crowley:

“Oh, and this vintage is supposed to be excellent; you really should try it, my dear—”

Oh.

Oh my.

“My _dear_,” he repeated, trying out what it would feel like to let the meaning come to the surface.

Crowley, slouching, his gaze fixed on Aziraphale as it always was, frowned quizzically. “Yeah, angel?”

“I do apologize; it’s just”—Aziraphale took in a breath, waved a hand—“it’s just that I can say it now.”

“You can say…my dear?” Crowley’s expressive eyebrows were knitted in puzzled amusement above his sunglasses. “You always say _my dear_. You’ve been saying it for millennia.”

“Well, yes, of course—I mean, I can _mean _it now.”

“What do you mean, you can mean it? It doesn’t—you say it to everyone. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s like saying hello for you.”

“Oh, Crowley, don’t you—” No. Of course Crowley didn’t know. He’d very carefully kept Crowley from knowing, kept everyone from knowing, done his best to keep himself from knowing. He swirled his wine, watched that instead of Crowley’s face as he asked, as casually as he could, “I…don’t suppose you remember the first time I…called you that?”

“Sure,” said Crowley unexpectedly. “You were trying to convince me to try eating. Babylon, wasn’t it? Remember it because I was…y’know, a little surprised. But you’d already been my dear-ing the humans for centuries or something by then. S’pose it just slipped out.”

“I hadn’t,” said Aziraphale.

“Hadn’t…what?”

“Hadn’t been…my dear-ing the humans.” Aziraphale took another sip of wine. His throat was suddenly dry.

“Well, sure you had,” Crowley said, his head tilted to one side. “You said it was a habit you’d picked up from them.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale set his wine on the table but still found the liquid much easier to look at than Crowley. “They’d been…saying that sort of thing to their—well, their…loved ones…for ages by then. I’d been—I suppose I’d been rather envious, really.” He looked up then, managing a nervous smile. It was a bit forced, but Crowley took the obvious bait:

“Mm, an angel, envious. How sinful.”

Considering recent events, Aziraphale probably should have felt complimented by this, but the magnitude of what he was confessing was catching up to him.

“Yes…well. They had…friends and families and, and spouses and…all sorts of people they cared for, to say things like that to. And I…I didn’t. Until I ran into you again. And it…slipped out. That was the first time.” He found he was twisting his hands together. He glanced up at Crowley through his eyelashes.

Crowley looked at him, then took off his glasses, tossed them to the table with a clatter, rubbed his face. “Sorry, angel—it’s been a really long…ehhhh…Armageddon. Can you…d’you mind just…telling me what you’re trying to say?”

Two things struck Aziraphale at once—first, that Crowley’s face, now that his glasses were off, was pinched and exhausted, and second, that the distance between the chair where he sat and the couch where Crowley slouched was intolerably far.

“My dear,” he said, letting himself mean it (Crowley blinked), and moved to sit beside him on the couch, a careful three inches separating their knees. “I’m afraid it might take years. And you look exhausted.” He pressed his lips together, reached out his hand, rested it on Crowley’s.

Whatever sarcastic quip Crowley had been about to make about Aziraphale telling him he looked exhausted never made it past his lips. Those lips were slightly parted, frozen like the rest of Crowley’s face, transfixed and focused on Aziraphale’s hand as if it were a spotlight and Crowley a small, frightened animal.

That state lasted for a second that seemed an eternity to Aziraphale before Crowley remembered to breathe, with a sharply hissing intake, and turned his palm toward Aziraphale’s, interlacing their fingers convulsively.

“Aziraphale,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes, my dear?” (Crowley blinked again.)

“_What _might take yearsss?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and found he was shaking. How odd. “Oh, dear boy,” (Crowley blinked yet again), “telling you everything I should have been telling you for six millennia.”

“I—” said Crowley, sitting up slowly from his slouch as if Aziraphale were a magnet, “I’ve got time.”

The magnet must have been mutual—of course it was; how could he have ever pretended he wasn’t hopelessly drawn to Crowley?—because it was Aziraphale who closed those last unacceptable inches of space between them, bringing their lips together.

It was a gentle kiss, the joining of two magnets which never should have been parted. When they pulled back, Crowley’s eyes were wide, and Aziraphale guessed his own must be the same.

“Oh,” whispered Aziraphale, for what seemed the twentieth time.

“Was—was that what you wanted to tell me, angel?” Crowley’s voice was equally hushed.

“That was only a very small part, my dear.” Aziraphale put a hand to Crowley’s cheek, felt himself warm straight through at the way Crowley leaned into it. “But,” he added firmly, “you _are _exhausted. You stopped time yesterday, you scarcely slept last night, we traded corporations, and there’s a good chance _your _corporation has concussion.”

Crowley rolled his eyes without moving his cheek away from Aziraphale’s hand, which was—oh dear, it was adorable. “I can stay awake.”

“I’ve no doubt you _could_, my dear, but I don’t think you _should_.” He took Crowley’s hand and pressed it to his own cheek. “I’ve an idea, if—if you don’t mind. Will you…ah…come to bed?”

Crowley’s jaw actually dropped. It took him three tries to produce words.

“Are you…ehhhh…going to be there too?”

“I would certainly like to be, my dear. If—if you want me to be?”

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “If I want you t’be,” came an agonized mumble. “Six th’san’ yrs ‘n’ he asks ‘f I _want him to be_.”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure if this was an answer, so he waited, arranging his arms around Crowley and patting his back awkwardly.

Eventually Crowley’s face popped up out of hiding. “One condition.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“That you put on some damn pajamas,” said Crowley. “You’re not coming to bed in a waistcoat and bowtie.”

The bed, which almost never had to cope with even one being resting on it, was shocked to find itself suddenly hosting two supernatural entities, but it handled the surprise competently.

“You know,” said Crowley, now in black silk pajamas, sliding cautiously under the covers, “you’re—ahhh—inviting a demon into your bed.” He was clearly trying to smile wickedly, but the effect was ruined a bit by the way he was clutching the sheets up to his chin.

“I am, yes.” Aziraphale, in soft tartan pajamas, knew he was blushing, but his voice was holding steadier now. He reached for Crowley’s hand, brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “I do believe _you’re _spending the night in an angel’s bed.”

Crowley grumbled faintly and nestled deeper into the pillow.

“Oh, my dear,” started Aziraphale, stopping when he saw Crowley closing his eyes as Aziraphale’s love washed over him.

“Tell me, angel. What you wanted to tell me. Please,” said Crowley, tentatively brushing fingers across Aziraphale’s cheek.

So Aziraphale began to tell him—how dear he was, how dear he’d always been. He supplemented his words liberally with kisses, and soon with caresses. Crowley gradually relaxed into what must by then have been a rolling ocean of love, six thousand years of pent-up feeling finally allowed to find its width and depth.

Aziraphale had begun to conclude that he was correct that it might take years for him to express everything (or that, more likely, he would never be finished), but this first round lasted only about three quarters of an hour. At that point, Crowley’s heavy eyelids drifted closed and stayed that way. Aziraphale watched him fondly as his breathing evened and deepened.

“Sleep well, my dear,” he whispered. Crowley twitched faintly. Aziraphale thought he might stay exactly here, watching Crowley sleep until he woke, but it turned out that activities like saving the world and defying Heaven and Hell were exhausting for angels as well as demons. After perhaps another half hour, an angel and a demon slept in each other’s arms, in a confused but determinedly supportive bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I neglected this fic for a bit, but it's back! One more quick chapter to go!


	5. Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to squeeze his eyes shut against what felt like a flood—all of human history was running through his head—well, not all. Very specific components of human history, in fact, or rather, human language—every word humans had ever used for their—their dears, their loves, their—

It would have been confusing enough in itself, when Aziraphale awoke sometime in the night—after all, it had been…oh, probably decades since he’d slept at night.

As it was, he sucked in a gasp and barely kept himself from leaping out of the bed when it registered that he was wrapped up in, and wrapped around, someone else.

“Mmphmmph?” came a very sleepy question from the pillow next to him.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale whispered. Would he become _used to this _at some point? Waking up next to his…his… “It’s all right; go back to sleep, love.”

Oh.

Oh my.

He had to squeeze his eyes shut against what felt like a flood—all of human history was running through his head—well, not _all_. Very specific components of human history, in fact, or rather, human language—every word humans had ever used for their—their dears, their loves, their—

“Y’r doin’ it ag’n,” observed Crowley, burrowing his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder, which seemed to have rapidly become his favorite spot.

“Ah—yes, I expect so,” said Aziraphale, breathlessly. He wondered how long he might keep unleashing waves of love at the mere thought of a few words. “It’s just—I can say _all of them _now.”

“Hmm? All of…what?”

“Um,” said Aziraphale, wondering if Crowley could see his blush in the dark, “I’m sure it seems silly to you, but all those words humans have called each other over the years—not just ‘my dear,’ but all of them—I never had anyone to say them to, because—well, because it should have been you, and I never let—but I can…or, I could say them now.”

“Like what?” came Crowley’s muffled voice.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, having to work to keep them all from spilling out at once, “well—dearest. My dearest.” His hand, seemingly acting on its own, was tracing slow lines along the black silk covering Crowley’s shoulder blade. “And darling. And—and sweetheart.” Somehow his hand was moving down Crowley’s spine, and Crowley shivered under his touch, or perhaps under his words. Aziraphale stopped, started to draw back—

“Nmph,” Crowley said, his arm tightening on Aziraphale’s waist. His other hand closed on Aziraphale’s nightshirt, bringing himself closer, burying his face in Aziraphale’s chest.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said uncertainly.

“Y’r not,” Crowley said into the soft flannel.

“I know it’s probably not your…well, your ‘thing,’” Aziraphale continued anyway, trying to ignore the sense of sadness that settled on him at the words, “using terms of…of…oh dear…_pet names_, I suppose.” He’d never liked that expression; it was much too small for what he felt—

Now it was Crowley who pulled back, though only far enough to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, his arm staying wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist, his hand bunched in Aziraphale’s nightshirt. Crowley’s eyes were somewhere between sleepily befuddled and blankly incredulous.

“_Angel_,” he said. That was all.

Oh.

Oh my.

“But—” Aziraphale tried. The wave of love Crowley had released with the supposedly everyday name was…distracting. Overwhelming. More than either of those. “I thought—” He closed his eyes, allowed the love to wash over him, tried to focus. “But that’s just my—my species.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Crowley, with an eyebrow raise that Aziraphale could just see in the dark. “Convenient.”

“But—but you could call any angel…angel.”

“I don’t, though.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “what do you call…ah…the other ones, then?”

Crowley made a face. “Don’t wanna ruin the mood.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, and decided he agreed. “But, Crowley. You’ve called me angel since…since very nearly the beginning. I—I thought it was…an insult, back then.”

“Never an insult,” said Crowley firmly.

“Or…a reminder. That we were…different. On opposing sides.”

“Ehh…a little. That was my excuse, anyway. Possible—no—designated—no—plaus—plossal—agh, I can’t do words when I’m ‘sleep.”

“Plausible deniability, sweet?”

“Mm. That’s th’one.” Crowley’s arm ran snakily up Aziraphale’s back. It felt lovely. “Nobody’d question me calling you by your…_species_.” He mimicked Aziraphale. “Not _my _fault th’humans turned it into a—a term of…thingy.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale thought he might question Crowley a little more closely on the origins of “angel” as a term of endearment, at some point by the light of day. “Very sneaky of you, dearheart.”

“Bit like calling everyone on the planet _my dear _so you could get away with using it for me, angel?”

Aziraphale felt his mouth curving into that fond smile that he could freely bestow on Crowley now. “Possibly. Corazón.”

“You gonna go through all of them, angel?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale could hear _his _fond smile as well. “You’ll run out eventually.”

Aziraphale chuckled. Their lips were nearly touching again. “I’ve been hoarding words since there _were _words, sweeting. I might not.”

Crowley’s hand found its way into Aziraphale’s hair at the base of his neck and pulled him in the fraction of an inch needed to kiss again.

“Can I…maybe…pick a favorite, angel?” Crowley asked some minutes later.

“If you like, beloved.”

At that one, Crowley had to take a few seconds to catch his breath.

“Um,” said Crowley, once he’d mostly recovered. “The…the first one? I mean…the very first?”

Aziraphale smiled and gathered Crowley into his arms.

“Of course. My dear.”

* * *

A year later (in a cottage on the South Downs, of course), Aziraphale still hadn’t run out of terms of endearment. Some of them were very old; some of them were very new (Crowley drew the line at “bae”). Some of them could be used for almost anyone; some of them applied only to Crowley (“husband” being a particular example).

Aziraphale still called everyone “my dear.”

But it sounded entirely different when he said it to Crowley.


End file.
